Don't You Want To Share The Guilt?
by WolfMarauder
Summary: A collection of oneshots looking at several characters after the fall. How can they live with the guilt? How can they possibly pass it on to someone else? Chapter 2: Lestrade. Please give it a shot! My first fic for Sherlock, so tell me what you think! Warnings for mentions of drug use and mental illness. No pairings.
1. Bad Vibrations

**A random Sherlock fic that popped into my head. This is my first fic for this fandom, so be kind! Eventually this should grow into a collection of oneshots from the point of view of different characters showing their reactions to the Reichenbach Fall. **

**I'm sorry if Sherlock seems a bit OOC, but in my opinion this is just the more human side he hides because he doesn't fully understand it.**

**Credit for any recognizable Sherlock characters or plot lines are property of BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatkiss, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Original novels), and all the great people who work on _Sherlock. _**

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Most people believed that Sherlock Holmes was ignorant to the ways of the human heart. They were wrong. In more ways than one. After all, the heart is a muscle for the pumping of blood, a process he had studied well. It has no more to do with the emotions of men than their big toe. That responsibility rested on the brain. Sherlock knew the workings of the brain, could read people by the merest twitch of a muscle. He knew that sentiment was a product of an electrical current jolting through synapses. However, he also knew that his brain didn't work the same way. He fancied that he could deduce any stranger's mind to a list of traumas, motives, desires, and disorders, but sentiment remained elusive.

It was only fitting that he had the most data on the mind belonging to the man who meant the most to him. His best friend. His only friend. John Watson. From the day he met him, Sherlock knew John suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. If the psychosomatic limp hadn't have given it away, the clenched fists and shaking hands were all he needed to know. It wouldn't even have taken a genius of Sherlock's stature to figure it out when Bonfire Night and New Year's Eve came around. There was death in John's past, and loneliness too. The attack on his platoon had killed all but a precious few, and left John a virtually friendless invalid with only an alcoholic sister to turn to. So bored, and so alone.

And then Sherlock came. He never doubted John's friendship, but all the same, he knew there was more to it than that. He was John's fix. John may be a doctor, but he was also a soldier. He liked to hear the pounding of his heart and the rush of adrenaline. He was not that much different than Sherlock in that way. He was willing to risk his life, simply to stop being bored. Sherlock knew what that was like, and he knew other ways to get a fix when one method was closed. John was an addict. Not on the sense that Harry or Sherlock were, but an addict none the less.

He knew enough about his friend to know that he would not react well to Sherlock's death. He also knew that John would be unable to hide the truth if he was let in on the secret of Sherlock's survival. He was left with no other choice. As far as John knew, he was buried under that smooth black gravestone. And therein lied the problem. In a plan laid out with precision the military could only aspire to, John was the wild card, as well as the only one that really mattered. Sentiment. The only explanation for the twinge in his chest.

"Sherlock," Molly called anxiously from the door, breaking him from his abstraction, "Mycroft called to say your false identity is almost in order. The legend is thorough. I'm sure all you will need to do is read out before it is absorbed. You should be able to leave soon." Sherlock did not answer, but continued to pluck the strings on his violin and follow the vibrations through its body. One small moment of movement in the string, he thought, and the whole instrument feels it and trembles. Did the string even fully understand what he wrought? If course it didn't. It was a string. It didn't feel or know or understand. He was being ridiculous. Sentiment.

"Thank you, Molly. I shall be ready to leave as soon as my arrangements are made." He hesitated for a moment, and then continued. "There is one more thing, Molly. I need you to do one more thing for me... It's John." He gestured to the armchair across from him and she perched tensely on the edge.

"What about him?"

Sherlock shot her an irritated look. "He came home with PTSD. I'm not sure how he will react to losing a friend in a civilian setting. Especially if he has to begin an average lifestyle."

"What do you suggest?"

"Get Lestrade to continue consulting John on cases. It will keep some excitement in his life."

"Of course I will. We will all be there for him."

"Make sure he continues to go to his therapist and to work."

"Why would he stop?"

"I hope he doesn't." Sherlock cried, ruffling his hair with his hand irritably. He took a moment to collect himself and continued more quietly. "I hope I am being overly egocentric. I was an addict, though, and I suppose I still am. I know if the hit you have been counting on suddenly disappears, life begins to lose meaning. It is all flat and pointless. John is addicted to Adrenaline and danger. He got that running with me."

"I will do what I can, but he is a grown man Sherlock..."

"Molly, there is one more thing. There is a stash under a loose board under my dresser..."

"Sherlock..." she admonished.

He shook his head and waved her off. "Remove it," he asked, "Dispose of it. John doesn't know about the stash but I think he suspects there is one."

"You don't think he would..."

"I don't know," he answered honestly. The not knowing cut at his pride, and he blamed it on sentiment. If John had been a stranger, he could have added up his observations and deduced something long before now. He would probably have been able to deduce what they were going to wear to the funeral.

He tried running over John's life as a set of statistics gleaned from his experience and pinched notes from John's psychiatrist. Doctor. Soldier. Victim of a violent attack. The disabled care-giver. Survivor's guilt. Discharged and cut loose. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Depression. Feelings of inadequacy and failure. Possible suicidal thoughts. Seeks dangerous and possibly self-destructive behavior. One principal connection, accompanied by casual encounters and loose friendships. A string of lovers. Family history of substance abuse.

It was only then, with the data spread out before him, that Sherlock realized his rock wasn't all that stable after all. Something like fear settled into his stomach again. Sentiment.

"I need you to look after him, Molly. He can't go back to the way he was before. I simply will not allow it."

"I will do everything I can, Sherlock. I promise."

"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? They will cope far more easily, but Mrs. Hudson at least could do with some watching."

"You don't need to worry about them. Just worry about not getting truly hurt or actually.. you know… dead."

"I've used you badly, again. It seems I always do," he said softly.

She reached out cautiously and placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched under her touch but did not pull away and she did not withdraw her hand. She met his eyes calmly. "I will admit you have treated me harshly in the past, but I do not believe you were being intentionally cruel. That is why I never complained. What you are asking me to do now is necessary and I am happy to do it. I am glad you trust me. So don't worry about it. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock studied her carefully. She was not the shy, timid Molly he had thought he had known. She did not stutter or fawn over him a she used to. She was being strong because he needed her to be, and because deep down she had been that way all along.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said with a small smile. He rose swiftly from his chair and placed a kiss on her cheek before he swept out of the room to place a call to his brother. He decided he quite liked the new Molly Hooper, one tried by fire, and may even trust John to her care.

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**Please review to tell me what you think! All constructive criticism is welcome!**

**Next chapter... Lestrade!**


	2. When a Good Man Dies

**I was a bit disappointed by the reviews on the first chapter, but since I don't believe in holding updates for ransom I am posting the next chapter that was completed shortly after the first. I would really like to know what readers think about these oneshots. They are something a bit different for me. If nobody likes them and is just too polite to say so, I don't see continuing this (unless another chapter pops in head desperate to be written down.**

**Anyway, enough of that! I am excited about this chapter because I love Lestrade and I think he doesn't get nearly enough attention in post-Reichenbach stuff. Also, it is worth pointing out that these are not chronological. They are written in the order I think of them. On with the story!**

***I do not own Sherlock and do no recieve any money for this.**

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Lestrade couldn't bring himself to see the body. Cold, eyes dull, laid out on a slab. Would they even do an autopsy, since the cause of death was so obvious? _Boring_, he would say. Lestrade couldn't bear the thought of Molly cutting in to him, cracking open his chest, and all the unpleasant things that happened to one's body after death. She wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, though. If Sherlock Holmes was to have an autopsy, Molly would be the one to perform it; as it should be. No, that was sick. Molly should not be forced to rifle through the body and brain she once loved, and possibly still did.

Donovan went with him to respond to the call—_God, was it really only three hours ago?_ "Impossible," she had breathed, watching the A&E team pulling Sherlock's limp and bloodied form from the pavement and on to a stretcher in an exercise in futility. They did not rush for very long. He had rounded on the Sargent. He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, but now his fingers twitched.

"_Impossible_," he had shouted, "What is so _impossible_ about this? _Impossible_ that this is _your_ fault? Are you proud that you brought a great man to this?"

"No," she stammered, "I… I mean… he's not… he wasn't the sort to give up and kill himself. He was to bloody proud for that."

"That shows you how well you really knew him. You were there for the call out for his last overdose. Answer me this, how does a genius whose specialty is human biochemistry manage to overdose himself by that much? If you haven't figured that out in all the years you knew him, you are more dim than even _he_ thought. Please remove yourself from my sight, and more importantly leave before John sees you. Go process the scene on the rooftop if you want to be helpful."

She had nodded, shamefaced. She walked to the front doors of the hospital. She passed by Anderson, who grabbed her arm. Sally pushed him off with barely a pause. Lestrade sighed; he would deal with her later. Now the only thing he could possibly think to do was to follow the way Sherlock's body had gone. Irrationally, he wanted to follow to berate the hospital staff that had given up on him, to push them out of the way and start CPR. It had worked once before, why shouldn't it work once again?

That was why Lestrade didn't need to see Sherlock's body. He had seen him dead once before, and that was one too many times. He didn't know him very much at all then, even less than he did now. He was just some kid genius junkie then, drugged off his head every time he saw him, but still so _very _clever. The arrogant nineteen-year-old boy had been a nuisance at first, but Lestrade hated to see that kind of brain go to waste before his eyes and made a point to check in on him every so often. Thank God he did, because one day he found Sherlock passed out on the floor in his hovel of a dwelling. He was unresponsive, and Lestrade could not find a pulse. He dialed 999 as he searched frantically at his neck and wrist but could not even detect a flutter in his still-warm body.

Lestrade had bullied Sherlock's unwilling body back to life then and later bullied an only slightly more willing Sherlock into sobriety. He had made such progress in the years after that. His relationship with John—not romantic but still so much more than friendship—had been the final proof for Lestrade. Sherlock was well on his way to becoming both _good_ and _great_. He no longer caught himself panicking when his texts went unanswered, fearing he would find the genius dead face-down in a gutter somewhere. He could practically feel Sherlock next to him saying, "How did you not see? It was so _obvious!_" The specter of the detective did not deign tell him what he had missed, and he could not even see the warning signs in hindsight himself. Going through the last twenty four hours was like picking through a fresh gash with a salty blade.

A sudden, horrible thought flashed in his brain, and it made him want to retch. Lestrade found himself wondering if it would have been better for the brilliant genius to have died then of an "accidental" overdose, a nobody junkie face-down in the gutter, than a proud man suffering a very publicized fall from grace and a suicide that was obviously intentional. Either way he will have died alone. He could have died a nobody, but Lestrade made sure he died a laughingstock.  
At least then he wouldn't have dragged John down with him, had he died chasing highs instead of criminals. Lestrade had seen the usually stoic army doctor sitting on a gurney. He was covered in blood, Sherlock's blood. A paramedic came to wrap a fluorescent orange shock blanket about his shoulders, but it only made the man sob even louder.

_"I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket."_

Lestrade wanted to offer the man some comfort, but couldn't bring himself to face him. Sherlock's death was, after all, largely his fault. He could try to blame Donovan and Anderson. He could hate Moriarty with all his heart and soul. Hell, he could even try to get angry at Sherlock himself, but Lestrade would always be the one who went to the higher-ups with suspicions. He would always know that for a moment, he too began to wonder. Given the choice between the man he considered like a son to him and his career, he had made a horrible mistake.

The guilt bore down on him, threatening to crush him under its weight. Lestrade could do nothing to keep it at bay. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter. Had Sherlock died in a gutter, Lesteade would not have felt this guilt, this suffocating grief. There would have been a sadness and pity for a young life wasted, but Sherlock's ghost would have joined a host of others that only haunted him on particularly hard days when the job just became too much. Now, figment-Sherlock has not left him since he saw the A&E crew give up on the real Sherlock.

He was so lost in his grief he did not immediately notice Molly standing in front of him. In fact, he did not register her presence until she placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. His head snapped up, causing Molly to jump back in surprise. He suddenly realized he was crying and rubbed furiously at his tears. He did not have the right to cry in front of Molly. Not when she was suffering from grief he caused.

"I want to see him.. I mean, his body…" he found himself mumbling thickly.

_No! No, _His mind screamed,_ that is the exact opposite of what I want!_ But he knew he needed to. He needed to confirm that he could do no more for Sherlock. That the man who he had always mistaken for superhuman and invincible was truly dead. Irrationally, he was still holding on to the hope that the bloody genius had survived the fall and would be sitting in the swivel chair in Molly's lab when he entered. He needed to crush that hope if he ever hoped to come to terms with what he had done.

"I…" Molly stuttered, looking down at her toes, "Just… Let me clean him up a bit. He wouldn't want… I mean, wouldn't have wanted you to see him all… like that. It will just be a moment."

Lestrade nodded and Molly ran back into the morgue to attend to the body of the man she loved. She seemed to be holding it all together remarkably well. Lestrade had to admire her strength, but almost wished she would cry. Then he could comfort her and feel useful. Now he just felt like his very presence was forcing her to fight to postpone her own grief. He wondered who the pathologist had to help her through.

Just as Molly said, it took just a moment. She returned for Lestrade long before he was ready to dash any stubborn hopes he held for Sherlock's survival. Molly grasped his hand in encouragement to get him through the doors. All the morgue tables were empty except for one. A tall, lean figure was laid out on it, covered completely in a white sheet. A stainless steel bowl was sat on the trolley holding the surgical tools. The water was red with blood. Lestrade approached the table with his eyes clenched shut.

_Please don't be Sherlock. Please don't be Sherlock, _he chanted childishly in his mind.

He felt Molly release his hand to uncover the body, and opened his eyes hesitantly. Lestrade drew a sharp breath and exhaled a sob. Sherlock's head and shoulders were uncovered. He almost looked like he was sleeping, so much more peaceful than he had on the pavement, so much more than he had in life. His mop of dark curls obscured the surely substantial damage to his skull, and he had died before bruises had much of a chance to form. The barest hint of purple shaded his body on the left side. His lips and eyelids were blue. Lestrade bit his knuckles in an attempt to stem the coming of tears. Molly patted his arm in comfort, shaking with tears herself.

"I'll just… just give you a mo…moment, shall I?" Molly stuttered in between tears.

Lestrade nodded numbly. For a long while he simply stared at Sherlock's still face, tears flowing in earnest now that he was alone.

"Sh…Sherlock," he choked, "I…God, I'm… I'm so, just so sorry. You were… the greatest…greatest man I will ever know…and a damn good one, too…the very best…I'm…I'm sorry I didn't see…see it sooner. God!" He took a deep, steadying breath and reached out to touch Sherlock's hand. He followed the line of his thumb up to his wrist and rested his fingers there. No pulse. He buried his face in his hands, unable to look one more minute at the corpse before him, his vision blurred with tears. "Good…goodbye Sh…Sherlock. P…please forgive me if you c…can. S…see you on the other side, even…even if you didn't believe in that…that sort of thing. I hope…I hope there are people there who can…can appreciate you like you deserve. I'm just so…so…sorry. Good…goodbye." Lestrade grasped the cold hand one more time, then turned and left the morgue.

Perhaps it was for the best that his wife had won custody of the girls. After all, he had driven his son, a damn good son, to kill himself. Not exactly the stuff a father-of-the-year is made of.

**Please review! In your review please pick who should go next: Sally or Mycroft!**

**P.S.: I try to respond to all reviews. Reviewers of my other stories, I am desperately behind right now, but I hope to catch up soon!**


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